In the Groove (15 page)

"Lance, I think it'd be best to meet up with you again in Chicago."

The line chirped instantly, Lance saying, "Chicago! That's too long."

"Well, I don't really think you have a choice. I have a job to do. I'm going to need all three days to get up north."

"Fine. You're fired."

"What?"

"You're fired. I'll find someone else to drive my bus. I can't wait three days to see you."

He was serious. "Lance," she said softly. "I don't want to rash into anything, 'kay. Please, let's just meet up again in Chicago. We can take it from there."

"Sarah—"

"You said you needed to focus, Lance. Having me around isn't going to help you do that."

A long pause. "What day are you going to get in to Chicago?"

"Probably Thursday morning."

"Fine. I'll see you then."

And when the phone chirped off a moment later Sarah wondered if she'd just blown it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SO SHE DROVE.

Driving always helped her focus on a problem. She could let her thoughts wander, although inevitably they always circled back to Lance and how other women enjoyed flings. And if Lance Cooper ended up being nothing more than a fling, so what? Why not have some fun?

Because she had a feeling Lance Cooper would slip beneath her defenses faster than a fly beneath a door. She'd be in love before she knew it, and falling in love with a professional driver was
not
a good idea. She was too insecure a person to deal with all the women who'd try to steal him away from her. Plus, she had a feeling the only reason he kept her around was because he thought she brought him luck. What kind of a sick relationship was that?

The next morning, Sarah decided it was time to renew her efforts at finding a job. A quick check of her voice mail at home revealed ten messages from her mom and five from her creepy ex—although she had no idea how he'd gotten her number. She'd just subscribed to the service and the number was too new to be listed.

Jerk.

She stopped at the first pay phone she could find—not to call her mom. No. That could wait. She dialed the number Peter had given her—a cell phone, she realized when it took forever to connect.

"Hello, Sarah," he said the moment he picked up.

"How the heck did you know it was me?"

"Because you're in Florida and I recognized the area code."

"How the heck do you know where I am?"

"It's not hard to figure out now that you're working for some race team."

Okay, that did it. "Peter, you know entirely too much about me and it's really starting to creep me out."

"I'm just trying to keep tabs on my girl."

"I'm not your girl. I haven't been for almost a year, which makes your behavior all the more disturbing."

"I miss you."

"You do not. You're just trying to get even with me for dumping you."

"No, Sarah. I really do miss you. I care for you."

"Oh, yeah? Then why'd you send those pictures to that magazine, huh? Why?
Why?"

"That wasn't my fault. Someone stole the photos from my hard drive, Sarah. I called to apologize."

"How did you get them in the first place?"

"I bought them from the guy that took them. For safekeeping."

"And how'd you find him?"

"The same way I got your new number. I called your mom."

"My
mother?"

"She told me you're working for a race team now. And that you're dating a race-car driver."

"I'm not
dating
him. I work for Mr. Cooper. That's all."

"Oh. Your mom made it sound like something more."

Her mom would.

"Look, Sarah," he said. "I'm really sorry about what happened with those pictures. A roommate stole them off my hard drive. I had nothing to do with what happened."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"It's true."

Maybe it was. And maybe it was exhaustion that caused her shoulders to droop. Suddenly the fight drained out of her.

"Your mom told me they caused you to break up with that guy you were dating, the one you left me for."

Sarah sighed. "Peter, I didn't leave you for him. I met him the week after you and I broke up."

"Yeah. I know. That's what you say," he said, sounding like he didn't believe her. "But I'm sorry just the same."

Was he sorry? Was he really? "Thanks, Peter," she said, figuring what the heck. He might be a creep, but she wouldn't throw an apology back in his face.

"Be careful, Sarah."

"What? Why should I be careful?"

"Because I know you really are dating that race-car driver. I saw you on TV the other night."

What? Had everybody seen that flippin' broadcast? "He's not my boyfriend."

"Well, I hope not, especially since he's off judging a topless contest right now."

"What?"

"When I Googled his name it came up."

"A topless contest?"

"Yeah," he said. "Some Bimbos thing."

No. Lance wouldn't do something so tawdry. He wouldn't go along with something like that. He wouldn't involve himself in something that exploited a woman's body.

"Well, even if it is true, it's none of my business. He's my boss."

Silence. And then, "Yeah. Okay."

"Look, Peter, I've got to run."

She hung up before he could say another word, her hands shaking as she stared at the pay phone, the silver and blue half booth providing little shelter from the sun.

What
topless show? What the heck was Peter talking about?

The Bimbos Girl International Calendar Girl contest, that's what, she learned later.

Sarah read all about it that afternoon when she pulled into an Internet café to check—all right, snoop—on Lance. Again.

So it was true. He really was judging a contest, although the girls wouldn't be topless. Bimbos. The restaurant chain with the big-busted girls in tight yellow tops.

Why the heck hadn't he told her?

And why the heck was she upset? It wasn't as if they were boyfriend and girlfriend. Well, maybe. But doing stuff like this was part of Lance's job. It didn't mean anything. Plus, it'd probably been scheduled long before she'd met him.

But
why
hadn't he
told
her about it?

That's what upset her, she realized. He should have mentioned it to her. The fact that he hadn't seemed suspicious, but it sure explained why he hadn't wanted her to join him until Tuesday. She'd wondered about that.

Unfortunately, her stress level only went up from there. The motor coach popped a tire, scaring her to death, but it was ultimately more of an annoyance than anything else.

By the time she arrived at Chicagoland Speedway— hours later than expected, thanks to her blown tire— she was ready for a nap. It was a clear night, the sky an eggshell pink that faded to purple. Humid, too (big surprise), thick air hitting her when she went outside to hook everything up. And why, she wondered, was it humid everywhere race cars went? Even this late in the day moisture adhered to her cheeks like a spray-on tan. She missed California.

"Where
have
you been?"

Sarah yelped, the hose she'd just turned on spraying water all over the neighboring bus.

Her
mother.

"What are you doing here?" Sarah cried, the hose wilting like a dead flower, which is how Sarah always felt around her mother.

"Turn that thing off," she ordered.

And in the dusky half-light Sarah could see that she'd splashed water all over her mother's shirt. And the reason she could tell
that
was because her mother wore a white blouse, one that tied around the middle. Now, Sarah didn't consider herself any sort of fashion diva, but she was reasonably certain middle-aged women should not, as a rule, wear tops that tied around the middle, especially if that middle happened to have more rolls than a Wonder Bread factory.

"Sorry," Sarah said, immediately turning toward the spigot and thinking this day just couldn't get any worse.

Oh, yeah?

"What do you mean what am
I
doing here? I told you I was coming."

Oh, damn.

"Uh, yeah," she said lamely. "That's right."

The flash of annoyance faded, but only a little. Sarah couldn't completely disguise the fact that she was less than thrilled to see her mother. But years of living with her had taught Sarah that the only time her mom was happy to see her was when Sarah was about to give her something she wanted.

"Aren't you glad I made it?"

No.
"Uh, yeah."

"Good. Then come here and give your mother a big hug."

"Um, no, Mom. That's not a good idea. It was a long drive and I haven't had a shower in—"

Her mom stepped forward and before Sarah could stop her, wrapped her in a hug, the breasts that were abnormally large, and yet, perversely enough given all the
unnatural
things about her mother, totally real, pressing into Sarah.

"Hi, mom," she said, leaning forward with a minimum of contact. Her mom liked to use a lot of perfume, a lot of
cheap
perfume.

"Sarah," her mother said, drawing back and— was that a tear she saw in her left eye?

Oh, please.

"I've missed you so much," she sniffed. "You never call me anymore."

"Mom. Have you forgotten that not too long ago you called me an idiot and accused me of being a closet porn star?"

"Pssh," her mom said with a dismissive wave of her hand, the talons she called nails studded with rhinestones. "I was just worried about you is all," she said, dabbing at her eye.

"Careful, Mom. You'll smear yourself."

Her mom instantly dropped her hand, probably because she didn't have her Wagner power sprayer with her to put her makeup back on.

"Where's Hank?" Sarah asked.

If he's smart, running for the hills.

"I don't know. When I saw you pull in, I got excited. I dashed out of the rental car ahead of him."

"How'd you know it was Lance's bus?"

"The gal at Sanders Racing told me what it looked like."

Sarah was going to have a talk with "the gal."

"Where is Lance, by the way?" her mom asked. "Is he inside?"

Mmm-hmm. Just as Sarah thought "Mom, Mr. Cooper doesn't drive from race to race. He has a jet. And he's at home or doing media appearances between races. I drive the motor coach so it's here waiting for him when he arrives."

"You mean he's not with you?'

"'Fraid not."

"But we've been waiting in that hot stuffy car for hours." But then she leaked out a sigh of long-suffering resignation. "Well, I suppose we'll just have to meet him tomorrow."

"Mom. I'm not going to be here tomorrow. My job is to drive the bus to the track, then hang out at a hotel until the race is over."

"You can't be serious? You mean you don't cook for him? You don't do his laundry? You don't cater to his every whim?" The last was said with a smirk, one that left no doubt as to exactly what sort of whims her mother had in mind. Oh, brother.

"No, Mom. I don't—"

"Took you long enough," a masculine voice teased.

And Sarah wanted to groan. She wanted to plunge her head into the turf beneath her feet. What, was there a GPS on her rear end?

"I got a flat on the way here," Sarah said, refusing to look him in the eye, because if her mom caught even a hint of what Sarah was feeling whenever she looked at him—the jolt that had gone through her body upon hearing his voice, the anger she felt over the whole
Bimbos
thing, the way she had to fight her own anxiety upon realizing she'd have to talk to him about it because there was no way she could let it slide—she'd never hear the end of it from Sylvia.

"Are you okay?" Lance asked, concern coloring his blue eyes. He started to come toward her, but Sarah held up a hand. Lance stopped in his tracks, a puzzled look on his face.

Her mom had turned to gawk at him, but she glanced back at Sarah with narrowed eyes. Sarah could tell she knew something had happened behind her back. But then her brow unfolded, her face smoothing into a look of welcome.

"She's fine," her mother said. "My little darling is just wonderful."

Her little darling?
Sarah's jaw unhinged. She snapped it closed just as her mother turned back to her, a wide smile on her face. "Sarah, aren't you going to introduce us?"

No.

But she knew she'd never get away with saying that. "Mr. Cooper, this is my mother, Sylvia Tingle."

Lance smiled, reaching out and taking her mother's outstretched hand. You'd have thought Elvis was alive the way her mom's eyes went all gooey. She clasped Lance's hand like she might need it for support, fake eyelashes so wide they looked like Venus flytraps. And as Sarah watched her mother, she figured she should just have herself spayed and be done with the whole genetic line.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Tingle," he said with that All-American smile that girls all across the U.S. had sighed and cooed over.

"Mrs?" her mother said. "Don't be silly. I'm not married. Goodness, why would Sarah tell you such a thing?"

And here it came: The subtle digs. The inference that Sarah was somehow in the wrong. Next she'd be insulting her appearance.

"Sarah didn't tell me that, Ms. Tingle. I just assumed that a woman as pretty as you had to have a husband."

Oh pul-leez, Sarah wanted to say. And when Lance looked in her direction and winked, she couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes. What? Had he been picking up cheesy lines at
Bimbos?

"Pretty?" her mom said. "Why, you sly dog. I'm old enough to be your moth—sister," she quickly corrected. "But you're very sweet to notice how I take care of myself. I keep telling Sarah she should do the same, but she just won't listen."